


Call Me Maybe

by Catchclaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just the sound of Stiles' voice does it for him. In maybe more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Maybe

The first time the phone rings in the middle of the night, he doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

"Huh?" he says, mouth full of sawdust.

"Dude," the phone chirps. "How do you do your laundry?"

"Huh?" he says again. Slower, as if that might help. Turns his face down into the pillow. It's warm. It's not asking stupid questions.

Right now, Derek loves the damn pillow.

The phone. Not so much. It won't shut up.

"Ugh. Your _clothes_ ," it huffs, like Derek's pricked its pride. "The things you use to hide all the nude. Uh. Mostly. How come they're always clean?"

Derek's fighting his eyes, he really is, because nothing good's going to happen when they're open, he knows it. He can feel it, sweet slug of sleep sliding away and the chill of the night creeping in. All the bumps in the mattress that disappear when he's dozing, they're back, digging deep in his skin. The pillow's damp and the air stinks of ashes. Yeah. He's home.

And now, sadly: he's also awake.

"Fuck, Stiles," he groans. "How'd you get my number?"

Stiles laughs, a short, snorty sound. "From Scott. Duh. Who do you think programmed his new phone?"

"I, ugh," is what comes out, though Derek's aiming for high-level profanity. "'S early."

"Early? Come on, dude. It's hardly even late. It's like, two. Tops. Some of us are just hitting our peak working hours."

"Some of us," Derek snarls, "are sleeping. Were. And unless City Hall is in flames, or an asteroid's hit, or you personally are getting ripped apart by a T-Rex, there's no reason for you to call, Stiles."

"But this is important," Stiles whines. He sounds almost insulted. "Derek. You really think I'd call you for no reason?"

"Yes!" Derek says, baring his teeth to the skylight. Ok, more like the least drippy hole in the roof, hence the position of his dubious mattress. "You did! You _are_!"

Stiles sighs, scratchy and overdramatic. "Would it help if I told you there's money riding on this?"

"No!"

"Ok, fair enough, but—" he hears Stiles says, right before he chucks the phone through the roof.

Ahem. The skylight.

He burrows back under the covers and shuts his eyes like a dare. _Sleep_ , he thinks, furious. _Goddamn it, brain. Go back to sleep_.

He must rest, eventually, because he wakes up twitchy, the sun too bright in his eyes. Showers with his claws out, unconscious, and murders an unfortunate loofah. Bares his teeth to the barista when she pumps hazelnut instead of caramel and spends the rest of the day in a funk. All because of that idiot Stiles.

He walks right past the Verizon store downtown and sure as fuck does not buy a new phone.

**

He has to, eventually. But he holds out as long as he can. 

A good week. Almost ten days, until a ghoul cuts a path through the strawberry farm out by the interstate. He needs Scott's help to kill the thing and, unfortunately, it's hard to strategize by howl.

Stiles shows up, too, looking wide-eyed and useless as usual, but what the hell. He's the one who saves the day.

"Would it kill you to do a Google search?" he says to Derek, while they're both still dripping in ghoul. "Seriously? Five minutes on the interwebs and you would have known not to cut its head off!" He waggles his gory hands in Derek's face. "That was _Re-Animator_ -level disgusting, ok? I'm gonna have nightmares for a month."

Derek scowls. He knows the full rhetorical effect of his eyebrows is lost in the dark and the muck, but it makes him feel righteous to glare. "Not all of us have laptops attached to our skulls!" he says. "Some of us _do_ , Stiles, rather than type."

"Oh fuck you," Stiles says, laughing. "You're just pissed because you're all dirty. Face it, Sourwolf, you like to be cleeaaannn."

He’s singing like a five-year old and taunting, honesty taunting, doing some kind of bizarre safety dance, and Derek's about two seconds from ripping his head off before Scott clears his throat.

"Um, guys," he says, still clutching the ghoul's rancid heart in his fist. "I think that's, like, enough for now, ok? It's dead. That's what matters, right? So can we just bury or burn this thing or whatever? I really need to get home."

After, Derek can't bring himself to get in the Camaro.

He opens the door and stares at the leather, the nice-crumb free seats, the floor mats with nary a wrinkle.

He stinks. He's covered in crap.

He can't subject his baby to this. It seems cruel.

"Hey," Stiles says. "Dude. I'll drive you home."

Derek's scowl snaps on, almost Pavlovian. He doesn't even have to think _pissed_. Just the sound of Stiles' voice does it for him. "What?" he says. "No way. I'm fine."

Stiles shrugs, Scott bouncing around on the seat next to him. "Ok. Whatever. And you're welcome, by the way. You totally owe us one. Right, Scott?"

"Um," Scott starts, uncertain, but Stiles floors it before he can finish.

He calls later while Derek's clothes are still smoldering. Before Derek can bring himself to go inside and hose the supernatural spew off his legs. While he's naked and crouched forlorn by the porch, staring at his boots and wondering if the things can be saved.

He's leaning towards a hard no when the phone rings.

"You've gotta tell me your secret," Stiles says before Derek can open his mouth. "Because two wash cycles later, my jeans are no cleaner and I think I clogged up the drain. With ghoul snot. Which will be great to explain to my dad, so. Thanks again for that."

Derek knocks his head against the porch rail. It sort of helps. "I just burned mine," he sighs. "My shirt, my socks, too. Everything."

"Oh!" Stiles huffs. "Well! Sure. Just take the easy way out and buy new clothes every time, huh? Every damn day, I bet, if you're you. It's a good thing you can buy wifebeaters in bulk. I'll look for you next time I'm at Costco."

"Shut up," Derek says, weary. "Whatever, Stiles. It's cold. I need a shower."

"You, um—?" Stiles gets out before Derek hangs up.

It takes him two days to shove the stench from his skin.

Every time his nose twitches, then, he thinks _Stiles_.

**

The next time, Derek just waits.

There's a good 20 seconds of dead air before Stiles' motor kicks in.

"So!" he says. "Hi there."

Derek rolls his eyes. Doesn't say a word. 

Watches his red socks do forward rolls in the window of the washer, his ducky boxers dancing behind.

He just waits.

"Hello!" Stiles tries again. "Earth to Hale. Are you there?"

Derek grunts.

"Oh, good. I was worried there for a minute, dude. I mean, when last we spoke you were headed for the old el bano, so I thought that you, um. Might have drowned."

It's so stupid, so Stiles, that Derek can't help it. He laughs.

It's midnight on a Monday and he's alone in a laundromat. It's just him and his Cheer and one load of color, one of whites. A roll of quarters and a package of Twinkies. And now Stiles, too, that huff of nervous hum in his ear.

"You thought I drowned in the shower?" Derek manages, after a minute.

"Yeah, you know," Stiles says. "In that _I've fallen and I can't get up_ kind of a—anyway! You're fine, right? So forget it. And I was totally kidding. That was an attempt at levity which has oh-so-obviously failed, and so it's best to pretend that it didn't happen, right?"

The washer starts to fade, the turns coming slower and slow. One sock gets stuck to the window and stays.

Derek sighs and tries to pretend he's not smiling. "What do you want, Stiles?"

There's a rumpled sound on the other end. "Um. Well. You never answered my question. Of like, almost a month ago, sure. But still. Inquiring minds want to take 20 bucks from their best friend, and there's no statute of limitations on reckless betting, so. Tell me. How come your clothes are always so clean? And don't expect me to believe that you buy new jeans every week, because I'm pretty sure the J Crew over in Los Gatos doesn't carry werewolf slacks in black."

"Slacks?" Derek says, incredulous, tugging sopping shirts towards the dryer. "Really?"

"Point missing!" Stiles says, and Derek can hear him flailing. "You're missing the point here, dude. On purpose."

"Why are you wagering on my personal hygiene, anyway? Even worse"—Derek jams in the last quarter and turns the dial to permanent press—"why are you talking about it with McCall? Admit it. That's creepy."

Stiles' breath winds up for the pitch. "Hey, look, we're young and stupid!" he says. "We do crazy shit like make bets with money we don't actually have on totally meaningless shit. I mean"—he honks this fake laugh—"come on, Derek. Please. I don't spend _that_ much time worrying about your grooming habits or whatever! Or why you always smell good and your jeans always look perfect, like tight just right in the back, and oh god, please. Kill me now."

"Do _what_?" Derek says, completely confused, but Stiles has already hung up.

He calls back five minutes later.

"What?" Derek says through a mouthful of Twinkie.

"Sorry!" Stiles says. "Sorry about that, dude. Saying nice things about your ass, totally off limits. Sorry I went there."

Derek gets in a good swallow. "Eh," he says. "Not a big deal."

He can hear Stiles' throat clench. "Really? I— _really_?"

"Yes. Really." Derek summons the wolf for a second, just for effect. "You put your hands on my ass, however? Be prepared to lose some fingers. Two. At minimum."

Stiles laughs, so relieved that it almost seems sweet, and Derek grins at the floor.

"I'll remember that," Stiles says. "Thanks."

Derek crumples the cellophane in his hand. Listens to Stiles fight a yawn.

"Go to bed," he rumbles. "Don't you have school tomorrow?"

There's that rumpled noise again and Stiles lets out a sigh. "I'm in bed," he says, "and fuck you, I have school today. In like five hours. Ugh. So whatever. Bye. Good night."

"Good night," Derek says to an empty laundromat.

For the next few days, every time he smiles, he thinks _Stiles_.

Thinks of vanilla cream smeared on his fingers, sticky and sweet.

**

When it rings again, his loud-as-fuck phone, he doesn't pick it up right away.

It's just after one. He's been in bed for an hour, watching the moon slip in and out of the clouds and pretending to read _Northanger Abbey_. 

He's on page 3, when it rings.

He holds the phone in his palm, weighs his options in the other.

Stiles is annoying.

It's been two weeks since he called, and Derek isn't sure why he's counting.

In time, he opens the line.

"What?" he says finally.

"So, uh, hi," Stiles says. His voice sounds weird. Tinny, or something. "Derek. Hellooooo."

"Stiles," Derek says, slow and deliberate. Just so everyone's clear. "Tell me what you want or hang up. I'm not in the mood for your crap."

Which is 90% of a lie, but Stiles has no way to know.

Stiles laughs, shrill and stupid. "Oh, well, big boy. What are you in the mood for?" he leers, and that's—

It takes Derek a second, because usually he can smell it on people, but Stiles is miles away. All he has to go on is the pitch of his breathing, the way he giggles between every word, and—

"Oh my fuck," Derek groans. "Are you high?"

There's a semi-melodramatic crash. "What?" Stiles yelps. "Oh, man. No. No way. Sooooo not high. That shit messes with my meds."

Derek pinches his eyes closed and leans back. "So you're drunk," he says to what's left of the ceiling. "Seriously?"

"Hey!" Stiles says. He's defensive and breathless, and Derek can hear him struggling to stand up. He gets this image of pink cheeks and a toothy wide grin, of Stiles' fingers scrabbling at the edge of his desk or his bed or Derek's arm, curling around and squeezing him hard.

Wait.

"I am a 16-year old boy!" Stiles is yowling. "It is my god-given, nay, my _constitutional_ right to be drunk off my ass on a Friday night, should I so choose."

"It's Wednesday!" Derek barks. "And the Constitution says you can't drink till you're 21. Jackass."

Stiles sighs. "Whatever. The Founding Fathers had beer for breakfast. I hate revisionist history." 

There's a thud, a little softer than before, and Derek could swear that Stiles is rolling around; one arm under the bed, probably, a leg stuck under his desk. Some papers or a textbook on his head.

He can't help it. He smiles. Because he can see it, for a second, in a flash: Stiles spread out like a sturgeon, his mouth flopped open the way it is when he's confused, or happy, or staring at Derek incredulous, his whole hooded body saying something Derek can't hear, exactly, but it sure sounds like something that's good. At least it does inside Derek’s head.

"Yeah, but. You still haven't answered my question," Stiles says, breaking in. "So obvs, dude. I had to call." 

There's this long pause.

Which is good, because it takes Derek a moment before he can shake it, that sense that there's something he's missing. "Uh," he fumbles. "What?"

Stiles clears his throat, like he's about to read the news. "Derek," he Cronkites. "So. Where do you do your laundry?"

"What?" Derek says again. "Stiles. You're still stuck on that? More to the point: you drunk-dialed me to talk about laundry?!"

"YES!" Stiles yelps. "You don't understand, ok? This is a matter of like, so great importance. Scott said you banged your wifebeaters on a rock in the backyard, dude, Wilma Flintstone-style, but I defended your honor! Told him that you soooo were hiding a Kenmore somewhere. Like in the basement. Something with a real good spin cycle."

"Hang on," Derek says quick, without thinking. "I don't get it. Why do you care? What difference does it make to you how, when, or why I wash my fucking clothes? I don't—?"

"Oh!" Stiles says. It sounds like he's bouncing. A wind-up robot on speed. "Dude. Yeah, see. I had this dream." He hums a few bars. "Ok, yeah. Let's call it a dream."

Something in Derek's head goes nuclear, hits every bell and whistle in the book. 

But he doesn't listen.

“Uh huh," he says, careful. "So?"

There's weird noise on the other end of the line, shuffling and floppy, and then Stiles is back with a _whump_.

"Sorry!" he says. "The floor sucked. Bed's way better."

There's a cartoon duck in Derek's brain doing laps with a fucking firecracker, warning him to turn back around, to hang up, to shut up, to _run_.

He ignores it.

"Ok," Stiles says. "So, yeah. My dream. See, I dreamt that you were like, really dirty. Covered in dust and mud or something, I don't know. Key concept: you were filthy."

"Ok," Derek echoes. 

"And we were, uh. On your porch."

" _We_?" Derek's eyebrow says, but he chooses not to translate. Keep his trap shut. Closes his eyes.

"And you had your hand in my hair, hard, like you were afraid I was gonna bolt. Which, let me assure you, dude, dream-me had no intention of doing." Stiles sighs, soft and a little spacey. "Yeah. So you were there, dirty as hell, and you pushed me down. To my knees. But you didn't let go."

"No," Derek breathes, but he's not sure Stiles can hear him, because Stiles is panting like crazy.

"Kept your hand on my head and like, yeah, here's where it gets"—there's a warm pulse of sound that makes Derek's dick jump—"and you like tugged me in towards you, towards your hips, right, and that's when you unzipped your fly."

This is a bad idea, Derek knows. This is possibly the worst idea, ever, except it isn't, says his hand on his cock.

Stiles' voice is doing all kinds of interesting shit, and the words are getting jerky and tight. "And god, Derek, you were like smearing dirt in my hair, on my face, because you couldn't stay still with me touching your dick."

"Yes," Derek breathes, and he's sure Stiles can hear him, because Stiles gets lost in these long beats of pleasure that Derek would love to see play out on his face.

But hell. He doesn't need to. Just the sound of Stiles' voice does it for him.

And Stiles is still going. 

"Your clothes were a fucking wreck, and your arms, and your face," Stiles says, "oh, you were covered in muck, but your dick was so pretty that finally I couldn't like stand it and I sucked it, Derek, sucked your fucking cock in my dream, oh Jesus—" 

The words break up on a moan, get lost in the static for a second. Derek laps at his fingers, sweet vanilla cream, and shoves his hand back into his shorts, the blue ones with the pink rubber ducks.

Stiles' mouth is moving, Derek can hear it, the kid’s tongue going every which way, but it's like he can't speak.

So Derek does.

"Yeah," he says, silver. "Yeah, Stiles. Just like that. Suck my cock."

His whole body shakes when he says it. Sounds like Stiles does, too. Shake and whine and beg.

"Please," he huffs, quick bursts of air. "Come on, Derek. Please."

Derek's eyelids flutter and he lets his fingers get tight. "So good. You're so good for me. Just a little more. Love see to see my dick in your mouth."

His cock nods in agreement and it's hot, he is, the blankets the air even the moonlight is burning his skin, listening to Stiles jerk off and groan like he's losing his mind.

So Derek keeps talking.

"I'm gonna pull out, now, baby. Get my fist on my cock and let you suck on my thumb. Hmm?"

Stiles is a wall of sound, now, one right after the other, wave after wave of want, and that's it, Derek's so fucking close he could—

"God," he gets out, the words fighting him every step, "you'd look so beautiful, Stiles, with my thumb right there in your mouth, snagged on your bottom lip. And you'll bite the tip for me, won't you, baby? Hard. Right before I come all over your face."

Stiles wails, sweet drunken unbidden, and the sound kind of breaks Derek's brain.

He comes all at once, a long hot punch of spunk.

The ducks on his shorts aren't amused.

He feels dirty and good and really fucking dirty, listening to Stiles slowly stutter back to life.

"Anyway!" Stiles says, after a while. "So. Naturally. My curiosity was peaked re: your laundry. You know, in my dream. As to how you would, uh, you do. Get clean."

Derek's so fucked, that almost makes sense. "Yeah, sure," he wheezes. "Ok, um. Laundromat. I go there. To wash the things."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Ok. Uh. So."

"So," Derek says, scrubbing his hand on the sheets. "Yeah."

"I should go."

"Yeah. Ok."

Stiles laughs, for some reason. "Good night, Derek."

"Yeah," Derek says, before Stiles hangs up. "It was. A good night."

Every time he smiles, after, he thinks _Stiles_.

Every time his clothes hit the hamper, he smiles.

Every time he gets his clothes dirty thinking of Stiles, well.

The smile, it goes without saying.

**

What's funny is how little changes.

Beacon Hills is still Sunnydale North, a weigh station for supernatural whatever.

The Pixie Stix spaz of the full Stiles experience is still too much for Derek to handle. It's still overwhelming, all those facial gymnastics and his hands flying around like motorized bats. He gives Derek a headache.

But when they talk, when it's just them in the middle of the night, it's good.

He likes lying in bed with Stiles' voice curled around him, even when it's high pitched and giving him shit. 

Sometimes, it winds him up hard.

They don't discuss that, exactly. 

Sometimes, one thing leads to another and Stiles comes from Derek's tongue, and vice versa, but without any actual touching.

Yeah. There's nothing there to discuss.

But mostly, it just feels good. Talking, when Stiles lets him. Listening, when he doesn't. Being heard. 

It gets harder and harder for Derek to stop that, though. Talking.

"You punch like a duckling," he shouts as Stiles reels, clutching his hand. It smells like his wrist is broken. "What in the hell were you thinking?" He throws himself at the migrak, slashing, going right for its throat.

"I was thinking," Stiles says, from where he's pitched over near the trees. "That you needed a second to recover. You know, since your eyes are bleeding. Excuse me for trying to help."

Derek gets a hold of the thing’s wings and hurls it back to the ground. "Whatever," he snarls, bearing his teeth at the migrak’s maw. "You just made my job harder. Now it thinks it has a chance."

"Excuse me," Stiles says, his breath coming harder, and yeah, Derek hears, he's definitely hurt. "I'm sorry. I forgot this was a one-man operation. Oh, wait, because no. It's not."

There's a growl at Derek's elbow and he arches back, lets Scott's claws come in for the kill.

The migrak tumbles over, twitching. It dies loud at their feet, green blood soaking into the mud.

"You guys really suck," Scott says around his fangs. "God. Do you ever shut up? You should listen to yourselves. Ugh."

He stomps away towards the road.

Derek carries Stiles to the jeep, one hand curled around the kid's wrist. He feels the pain dance up into his veins, feels the happy sag of Stiles' body in return. He feels—

"A duckling?" Stiles says. "Derek. Come on."

His head's a good weight on Derek's shoulder. That voice is right next to his ear.

Derek squeezes him a little. "What?"

"I mean, ducks can't even make a fist." 

"Exactly. Neither can you."

"Hilarious," Stiles says, but Derek can feel him smiling.

**

"You know, you could call me," Stiles says, a few weeks later.

"Why would I do that?"

"Uh, I don't know. Because you like talking to me?"

Derek rolls over. Lets a hand drift over his hip. "You barely let me get a word in edgewise."

"Hey," Stiles says, "there was a time, not too long ago, when I thought the only words you knew were _chew_ , _meat_ , and _sadness_ , so. Don't blame me for training myself to do the conversational lifting when you're around." He sighs. It makes the line buzz. "Witty insults aside, I actually called to apologize for, uh, falling over yesterday and letting that thing whale on your face. And see? You totally distracted me."

"Why didn't you say something yesterday, then?"

Stiles huffs. "You mean, while Scott was bleeding all over your shoes? Yeah, perfect time for that. Right. Besides"—Derek can hear him shifting around, the tangle of the sheet in his hands—"I, uh. I like talking to you. Having you listen. But that's kinda hard to appreciate when your supernatural bros are trying to kill us."

"They're not my 'bros,' Stiles. I'm not even sure what that means."

"Brethren? They're kind of your brethren."

"No."

"Well, you both have 'were' in your name. That's gotta count for something."

"It doesn't," Derek growls. 

"Ok, ok," Stiles says. "Geez."

"And if you ever taunt a werecat with a laser pointer again, I swear, I'll—"

"What? Oh come on! That was—"

"Incredibly stupid. Bordering on suicidal. Not to mention? Not very funny."

"Bullshit," Stiles says. "I saw you laughing."

Derek punches his pillow, bites back a grin. "I was laughing," he says, "at you writing your obit with such a lame joke." He stretches his hand in the air, skywriting. "'Here lies Stiles. Dead and unfunny.'"

"Fuck you very much."

"No," Derek says, easy. 

"Yeah, well," Stiles says, a little hinge in his voice. "Way to let a guy down easy. You are diplomatic material there, dude."

"Oh," Derek says.

"Oh," Stiles repeats. "Yeah. So." He clears his throat. "Is this the point where we just like openly ignore the flirty flirty, sexy sexy thing, or what?"

Derek's heart coughs. "Huh?"

"You know, the whole I-want-you, you-want-me, but we're gonna hide it behind banter-y bullshit a la _The Philadelphia Story_ , because if that's the case, I'm calling Kate Hepburn. She's awesome. And you're much more a Cary Grant type. Or maybe Kate's asshole fiancé. I always forget his name."

"I don't—" Derek says, the blush winding up through his chest. "I have no clue what you—"

"Ok, yeah, that's bullshit," Stiles says, way too loud. "Derek. Please. I'm not an idiot. You are, fine. Willing to cede that point. But me? No fucking way." His volume button's stuck, apparently, because he's two steps from shouting. "I don't get you. We've had phone sex! Kinda accidentally, the first time, ok, but come on!" His breath comes out in a rush. "I mean, god. I like you, you moron. Or hey, even worse: I kind of love you, I think. Either that or I'm coming down with Ebola, hence my bleeding heart, and I'm rooting for the virus at this point."

Derek sits up. His breath is betraying him and his head hurts but—he might also be smiling.

"Stiles," he says, but Stiles is still going.

"I get that I'm not, like, a catch or anything. I am terrifyingly mortal and I'm still afraid of the Teletubbies and I actually like Jar Jar Binks, dude, so you know. Baggage like whoa."

"Stiles," Derek says again, louder.

"You can just tell me. It's ok. I won't be—I'm just confused because on the phone, you talk to me like this and you make me come so fucking hard from just _talking_ , god, the goddamn sound of your voice, but when we're in public you don't speak, you just yell. And when we don't talk, it sucks, but you won't call me, always wait for me to call you, so I don't know if I'm bugging you or you're putting up with me out the goodness of your werewolf heart or what, but—"

"Stiles," Derek says, one last time. Quiet. "Shut up."

There's this long, not-so awful pause. Derek can hear Stiles holding his breath. Or maybe that's him.

"I kind of love you, too," Derek says, somehow. "Or I did until you dropped that Jar Jar bomb. Now I'm not so—"

Stiles cackles, beautiful and annoying as fuck, and the sound goes on for a long time.

Long enough so that Derek can still catch the echo between the bookcase and the bed frame when Stiles opens the window and lets him in.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to my lovely ex for sharing my confusion re: Derek's laundry and for letting me steal the "chew, meat, and sadness" line. Much obliged.


End file.
